


Going Down

by AequoAnimo



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AequoAnimo/pseuds/AequoAnimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Building maintenance estimates it'll take ten minutes to fix the broken lift. Jamie doesn’t plan on spending them just waiting around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for claustrophobia.

“Keep that kind of shit up and you'll find yourself looking for fucking job vacancies over that piss you call coffee in the morning.” Malcolm strides towards the lift, black overcoat trailing behind him like an old-time villain's cape.

 

When the steel doors open, Jamie enters first and pokes a thick finger at the ground floor button. Malcolm slinks to the back corner, completely still for once in his life. He stands silently, an unreadable statue, jaw set and scrolling away on his Blackberry.

 

“'M not talking to you,” Malcolm finally grumbles when the lift begins to descend, eyes still fixed on the screen of his Blackberry, which Jamie knows perfectly well does _not_ get any reception in the lift.

 

Jamie laughs. When the lanky bastard gets into a mood like this, he has no choice but to wait out the storm. “Haven't got anything to fuckin' say. You're the one who's always running your mouth.”

 

“You can forget my place tonight, right? You're on your own, pal.” Malcolm nearly spits the last word. “Hope you've got another suit at yours that doesn't stink of week-old curry.”

 

The lift stops. Malcolm looks up from whatever he's reading and squints at the display on the wall. Still floor two.

 

“Is this thing gonnae fucking move?”

 

Jamie answers with a half-hearted kick at the door and shrugs. And that's when the lights go black.

 

“Great, fucking great. Trapped in the bowels of DoSAC for the rest of my life. Jesus Christ, of all the fucking places,” Malcolm says. He shines his Blackberry screen towards the buttons, feeling around for some sort of emergency call button to get them out of this prison.

 

“Building maintenance,” the voice drones from the speaker in the ceiling. Well, at least the fuse that controls _that_ isn't broken.

 

“Malcolm Tucker here,” Malcolm says. The man's blood run cold at that declaration; Malcolm's reputation in this building precedes him, apparently.

 

“Right, er, how can I help you, Mr Tucker?”

 

“Listen, I'm stuck in a lift, mate. It's the one on the left. We're on floor two. Ish. Fuck if I know. They've got me trapped in here with some mutant cross between Gnasher and the fucking Tasmanian Devil. D'you think you can send someone to come and get us out before he rips my fucking head off?”

 

“Oh, sure,” the maintenance worker says, his tone lightened. “I'll send someone right up. Should only take about ten minutes. Just hang in there, Mr Tucker.”

 

When the speaker clicks off, the friendliness fades as quickly as it appeared.

 

“Jesus Christ, I haven't got all fucking day here,” he says. Two steps one way, two steps the other, he paces back and forth, mentally running through the list of shitstorms he has to sort out back at Number 10.

 

A paw on his shoulder stops him and spins him around.

 

“Stay still for one fucking second, would you?” Jamie says, his face almost touching Malcolm's own.

 

“The fuck is it to you?”

 

“Nothing, I just think I need a neck brace from watching you wear these carpets down.”

 

“Oh, fuck off, you can't see anything. This place is dark as the fucking cave your wee mum birthed you in.” Jamie shoves Malcolm for that, but his fingers don't let go of Malcolm's overcoat.

 

“It's just ten minutes, you impatient cunt.”

 

“Yeah, well, that's ten minutes I haven't _got_ _._ ”

 

Jamie tightens his lips into a thin line and nods. “You know what I think?” Jamie asks, his voice almost a whisper.

 

“'Course, I heard it all back in the office there, along with everyone else,” Malcolm says, trying very hard indeed to stop thinking about how tightly Jamie's fingers are pulling his coat, how he's close enough to feel the heat radiating from Jamie's head.

 

Jamie's so focused that his selective hearing filters that out. “I think,” he breathes, beginning to loosen Malcolm's tie, “you need a little something to take the edge off.”

 

Malcolm's body tenses at the touch. “Aye, the last time you gave me something to take the fuckin' _edge_ off, I ended up wandering around Drumchapel half-dazed in my pan–”

 

“Enough with the fucking _talking_ ,” Jamie says as he pulls the end of Malcolm's silk tie through its loop. “Not that kind of something.”

 

“You think this is going to make up for what you did back there?” Malcolm's holding onto his anger by just a thread now, not ready to concede his loss so easily, but he still finds himself swaying back and forth in time with Jamie and gripping Jamie's narrow hips.

 

“Well, talking from previous experience...”

 

“You know what? I'd like to see you try,” Malcolm growls, and then suddenly there's no longer any space between their faces and Jamie seems to be trying to push Malcolm through the mirrored wall with his lips. Malcolm attempts to slow him down, to stop the wee runaway train that is headed straight for him. He can't let Jamie get to him. Jamie _always_ gets to him. This time has to be different. But then Jamie's hand is gripping him through his trousers and he's sighing into his mouth and fuck the stoic act he's been putting on, there's no denying he doesn't want this. He melts into the kiss.

 

Jamie makes a noise more commonly associated with rabid street dogs into Malcolm's neck as he rips Malcolm's shirt from his trousers and fumbles in the darkness to unzip him. Trying to do the same, Malcolm claws at Jamie's waist in vain.

 

“No, love, we haven't got the time for that,” Jamie says, grabbing Malcolm's wrist and pinning it to the carpet.

 

Jamie is well aware of how tight his own trousers have grown, but he's on a mission now. He's only got ten minutes and he'll use every last fucking second of it for his own purposes, thank you very much. Aside from the ever-present urge to have Malcolm's cock in his mouth _right the fuck now_ , there's a practical element to it: the longer he can drag this out, the more breathless Malcolm will be in the car, cutting down on the bollocking he receives on the ride to Number 10 for what happened earlier.

 

Jamie can't see him in the darkness, but he can hear Malcolm groan through a bitten lip as Jamie pulls him, already half-hard, out of his pants. He laughs softly, hot breath tickling the base of Malcolm's stomach. He's winning.

 

Malcolm has always been able to appreciate Jamie's hands, heavier and thicker than his own. Jamie begins to move his hand gently against him, barely touching, leaving a trail of lingering kisses here on a hipbone, there on a thigh, everywhere but where Malcolm aches for him.

 

Before Malcolm can manage a strained “get on with it,” he's startled by the tip of a warm tongue, flattening bit by bit as it slides upwards. He lets out a long, slow breath and decides he's _really_ going to kill Jamie later.

 

Jamie slides his pouty bottom lip up Malcolm's length between wet kisses. Though it's too dark for Malcolm to see anything beyond slight shadows, his other senses are sharpened here. Every hair on his body seems to stand at attention waiting for Jamie's next movement. He shivers as Jamie's breath blows over his skin.

 

“God, yes, _Jamie,”_ Malcolm says when the wee tease finally lowers his mouth onto him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jamie registers that there's now a leg wrapped around his back.

 

Any sense of urgency or spite that plagued Malcolm earlier has long disappeared in the heat of Jamie's mouth. Malcolm is usually skittish about getting too close to Jamie when they're working, much to Jamie's dismay. No mortal will ever fully understand the inner workings of Malcolm's brain, but Jamie has come to realise that a fortunate turn of genetics causes it to confuse the chemical signals for “pissed off” and “extremely fucking turned on.” Thankful for whatever biological sorcery blessed Malcolm (and himself) with such a gift, Jamie hums around him.

 

Malcolm tangles his fingers in Jamie's hair, half to guide him and half because he needs something, anything to keep him grounded. With every ragged rise and fall of his chest, he whispers Jamie's name. He can't stop himself from jerking his hips when Jamie pulses his tongue over and over again just beneath the head of his cock. Jamie doesn't seem to mind; he moans obscenely as Malcolm pushes deeper into his mouth. But Malcolm can't take it much longer, not with Jamie's velvet tongue and lips gliding along him even faster than before, and then Jamie twists his hand up just so and he's got Malcolm falling to pieces beneath him.

 

Jamie wipes his mouth and they lie there for a moment in the humid lift car. It's never dignified after they've fought. Jamie's still on his knees with his trousers grinding crumbs into the dingy carpet. Malcolm's no better off, back slumped against the wall, his once-crisp, starched shirt pushed up in a wrinkled mess on his flushed chest and his trousers shoved halfway down his legs.

 

Jamie rests his head on Malcolm's stomach and curls his lips into a grin, panting.

 

“Still fucking wrong,” Malcolm manages to get out between shallow breaths, but his hands are running through Jamie's damp hair and there's no venom left in his voice.

 


End file.
